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About Notes From Jane
The notes from Jane began coming only days after she moved off to the west in her search for peace and joy. They continued for years without discernable pattern. I might not hear from her for a month and then get two notes in a week. It was very rare to go more than a few weeks in between contact. Sometimes, it would be a postcard or a short note usually written on a scrap piece of paper and stuck in an envelope. The envelopes would show return addresses that included such things as “Under the Blue Moon”, “By the Gray Rock”, “Back in the Middle Again”. Postmarks were almost…
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I Just Failed
I wish I had taken more pictures of Jane. It is so silly, looking back, that I did not, for she was certainly photogenic. The few good ones that I do have, I really can’t share. Not that they are “bad”, but most are . . . well, artsy. That’s a good word. It is not an exaggeration to say I have taken thousands and thousand of pictures. That includes almost every place I’ve ever visited, lived, spent time, and, for sure, everyone I have cared about. But few of her. I really do not have many regrets in my life; for sure, far fewer than I should. This one…
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Moonlight
Jane called late one night. She was quiet but mentioned sitting outside in the moonlight. Then, she said “I need you to read something for me. Remember that poem you wrote about watching me in the moonlight while I slept? That’s what I was thinking about as the moon was making my skin glow. Can you read it for me?” It took a minute to dig it out of the file where I kept all my poems. As I flipped through them, I was thinking of that night, not long after we had started spending a lot of time together. I wrote it sitting in bed with the moonlight streaming…
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More Notes Are Coming
I have quite a stack to get through and I know there are others I have not found. Then, too, there are a few that I can’t seem to get myself to type. They have to be here at some point but the memory is too raw right now. I will get to them when I have a day filled with strength.
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Find That Girl
(Excerpt from a longer letter from an old friend of Jane’s who lived in Casa Grande, Arizona and through the years also became a good friend of mine). . . . Jane spent the night with us two days ago. She just showed up at the door early one morning. I don’t know what is going on but I do know she is a wreck. She has a great act and, if I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might be fooled but I can read between the lines. She smiles far too fast like she flicked a switch and the smile comes on. Then, just as…
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The Coyote’s Song
We heard the coyotes calling one night when we were camping in the hills just beyond Sitting Bull Falls New Mexico. I had heard them before but not with you. Before they were like dogs yipping and disturbing the night. “Listen”, you said and were so pleased with their calling. You just looked at me and smiled as they called. With you, the calls were songs in the desert night. As they sang you told me about a dedication that J. Frank Dobie had written in one of your books. It said, “May you always live where you can hear the coyotes sing”. I’d not have understood that had I…
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The Dream Catcher
You should see the sculpture I made. Maybe it’s a sculpture. A hanging sculpture. It started off being like a “dream catcher” – like the one you bought for me at the Papago Indian Reservation south of Tucson. Then it grew and became something else. Something more. The catcher part became a small human figure. It is made of glass and cord twisted and knotted. The figure lays on its side. Around it are hanging bits of crystal and glass. Most are clear, shaped like drops and some are cut to catch the light so they glisten in even faint light. All of the ones towards the bottom are red…
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Making Your Mother Cry
Your mother has to be the sweetest person I ever met. When she came to town that first time, you didn’t really say what you had told her about me. I figured that you would probably have told her at least the highlights — well, I mean the low lights, of course. Everyone, even you, seems to always do that. I do understand that but wish it wasn’t so. I know that everyone just wants to keep people from saying what they think would be the wrong thing, from asking some innocent questions that might affect me in ways it really doesn’t. That’s a blessing and a curse, of course.…
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Working On My Resume
Okay, Mikey, I’ve got the giggles this morning. One of our old songs was playing, Taxi, by Harry Chapin. I still love that song. It made me realize this morning that I need to add another job title to my resume. Actress. Through the years, just like Harry’s old girlfriend and Taxi, I’ve been acting happy. That’s my recurring role. OH, my goodness! I just realized that there’s another job title I can add to my resume from the same song. For just like the taxi driver I’ve learned to be a pilot–for like him I fly so high when I’m stoned. So many giggles for this cloudy, dismal morning.…
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I Can See His Eyes
Mikey, I’m scribbling in the dark tonight. Sending words to you is where I still turn. I can see his eyes. They are green eyes just like mine. They look at me without blinking. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry anymore. He just looks at me with my green eyes. I can’t move. I know it will do no good. I can’t reach him or touch him. The evil won’t let me. Each time I try, he stomps on my broken fingers again or kicks me so hard it lifts me off the ground. No matter what, I can just see his eyes. I can see his eyes now even…
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I Promise the Longer Pieces Are Coming
Most of my time with this has been spent retyping the notes from Jane. They are mostly short snippets of thought. There are a few longer ones and I certainly have a lot to add to the story. Those are long pieces and they will clarify much of the mystery. I promise some of those are coming soon.
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Not Ready to Tell This Part (New)
I was listening to music this windy morning and naturally hit upon one of “our” songs. If I said I listened to it twice, I’d be lying for it was not twice. Somehow, my finger must have accidentally pushed “REPEAT: LOOP”. For that song brought another memory. One I haven’t mentioned to anyone. It was one of those “Should I?” or “Should I not?” events. A decision to be made that still haunts. For I saw her once again, by accident, on a trip to Tuscon. I had gone to see my old biology professor who had retired there. He and I were sitting at the little cafe on Tanque…
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Getting the Night Over and Done (New)
(From one of those late-night phone calls) “I shouldn’t tell you this, Mikey, but sometimes I have no power to stop the truth from slipping out” she whispered into the phone. “Wherever the night finds me, I go to bed early. If I have to sleep alone, sleep without you. I want to get the night over with as quickly as I can.” There was silence for a few seconds. “Is there a song in there somewhere?” she asked softly. “I keep thinking there must be but I can’t find the melody .” She paused again and just as I started to speak, said “Don’t say anything, please. The truth…
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Her Name Was Jane
A woman I have known for a few months asked one day about “that woman who left that haunted look in your eyes”. She didn’t ask what happened to her. For some reason, she was just curious about how we met. She asked a couple of questions, each time referring to “that woman”. That woman had a name. Her name was Jane. Once, many, many years ago I took one look in a pair of green eyes surrounded by a mass of red hair and fell instantly in love. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that quick, but for sure I was thunderstruck at that very moment. We were dancing the first…
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Yield to the Foolish Tides of the Heart
Yield to the Foolish Tides of the Heart If truth must be told— and oh, how cruel truth can be— then let it rise like an untamed tide, drowning the years in waves of longing. For time has never dulled the edges of this ache, nor softened the weight of what was lost. I drift, night after night, into the past, where golden moments still shimmer, untarnished, where your laughter lingers like a melody unfinished. Memories do not ask permission; they flood the quiet hours, unbidden, arriving with the hush before dawn, between the wreckage of reality and the dream of what could have been. If only… if only… We…
